


tell me you're happy (i'm not)

by witchless



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Endgame Feysand, Eventual Feysand, Everyone Needs A Hug, Except Tamlin, F/M, Feyre Needs a Hug, Heavy Angst, Miscarriage, Mor Needs a Hug, Physical Abuse, Rhys needs a hug, Trauma, fuck that bitch
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22208104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witchless/pseuds/witchless
Summary: "She still remembers the exact moment she met him—the way he looked, smelled, smiled. The way the light danced in his hair. The way her heart caught in her throat."orFeyre meets Tamlin in college. He's sweet at first. Then he's not.(She meets Rhysand later in life.)
Relationships: Feyre Archeron/Rhysand, Feyre Archeron/Tamlin
Comments: 18
Kudos: 51





	tell me you're happy (i'm not)

**Author's Note:**

> this little fic is inspired by two songs on halsey's album, manic -- You should be sad and Finally // beautiful stranger. it's primarily about feyre, her relationships, and the horrific things she faces in her life (in a modern setting). this first chapter is about her and tamlin, yes, but they are in no way endgame. stick around for part two to see the lil baby rhysand. 
> 
> warning: this fic deals with some delicate topics like miscarriage and toxic/emotionally abusive relationships. so if you find those things triggering, it may not be for you! but, while there are some downs, i promise it ends on a happy note.

**i.**

She still remembers the exact moment she met him—the way he looked, smelled, smiled. The way the light danced in his hair. The way her heart caught in her throat. 

He looks at her. She smiles. Then she goes back to her notebook, scratching numbers and words into the margins of her lecture notes. It takes her moments to forget him, to duck her head and bury herself back into her work.

When he sits down in front of her, pulling out the old, wooden desk chair like he is plucking a rose, he smiles again. She is so surprised that she nearly jumps out of her skin. Her head whips up, a barbed response prepared. And then her heart stops because— _no one has ever smiled at you like that before, have they?_

“My name’s Tamlin.” There is an easy confidence in those words. Smooth and sweet like honey. His backpack hits the tiled floor with a soft thunk. 

Whatever remark she meant to spit at the stranger fizzles out on her tongue, but she still raises an eyebrow. Over his shoulder, she can see the table he’d left and the small group of friends still seated there.

“Feyre,” she replies. 

Tamlin grins. Perfect white teeth. Green eyes she could’ve spent hours trying to capture. Blonde hair the color of threaded gold. Feyre shifts in her seat and begins to twirl her pencil in her fingers—a nervous tick she’s never quite been able to shake.

“We’ve got Brown together right? At eleven?”

Feyre looks down at the notes she’d been in the process of reviewing and her eyebrows raise. The tightness in her chest softens. “Oh. Yeah. I think so. I’m actually studying for that right now."

“For that test Friday?”

She nods. Without warning, Tamlin leans over the table and twists his head so he can get a better look at the page. He is close enough that she can smell the rich, heady scent of his cologne and when he braces his elbows against the table, his white shirt rides up his back until she can see a strip of smooth, tan skin. Feyre swallows, her eyes darting everywhere but him.

His finger lands on a sketch in the upper right hand corner. Definitely _not_ math related. Feyre curls her hands at her side to stop herself from snatching the notebook away. 

“Did you draw this?” he asks, pointing to a doodle of a cat’s eye. He traces the almond shape of the eye once with his pointer finger before looking up at her expectantly. 

She meets his inquisitive gaze briefly before she nods again. 

“You’re really good. Are you an art major?”

Feyre pauses, shrugs. A harmless question she’s already answered fifty times in the two weeks since starting college. “Undecided, actually.”

“Well, I think you’d be great at it.” He shrugs and slinks back into his chair. His eyes are drawn to the pencil still spinning in her hand before they flick to the laptop positioned at an angle next to her notebook. “Do you mind if I stay here?” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. “Those jackasses make it hard to focus and I figured we could work together on this study guide.”

She looks at him again. There is no question in those green eyes. He knows the answer, knows it because he is golden and charming and he’s blessed her with that disarming smile that always gets him what he wants.

She opens her mouth to say, _No._ She’s busy. She has things to do. She studies better alone. But his gaze is so expectant and that resounding _no no no no_ slowly turns into _what could be the harm?_

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “That’s no problem.”

She remembers the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he laughed. And she remembers the way she felt—like for the first time, in a long time, she was being seen.

**ii.**

Tamlin makes his interest known from day one and Feyre finds herself soaking in the attention he so freely provides. She can’t believe someone so perfect could be interested in someone so ordinary but she’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The more she learns about him the more she’s sure that the Cauldron is finally rewarding her for weathering her stormy childhood. Tamlin is a senator’s son. His trust fund is likely larger than her family’s entire life-earnings.

(She’s at Stanford on pell grants and scholarships. Tamlin praises her intelligence and hard-work but Feyre avoids the topic because he somehow always makes her feel bad about not being to afford it outright.)

When he picks her up for their first date in a brand new, shiny red Mercedes Benz—he rattles of letters and numbers after that and she knows they’re supposed to mean something but as for what she has no clue—and presents her with a bouquet of pink roses, she is sure she has found her Prince Charming. 

When he kisses her goodnight, he’s warm and soft but deliciously hard in all the right places and she can’t help the little noise she makes in the back of her throat when he slips his tongue in her mouth. And when he presses her against the door, slips his hand under her shirt, she lets him guide her into her dorm room and slip off her clothes. 

He makes love to her in long, sweet strokes. She throws her head back but not because of the pleasure—although there’s plenty of that, too, because like so many other things he’s perfect at this. She’s searching for those blushing roses, sat in a beautiful glass vase on the dresser next to her impossibly-small, college-standard twin bed. Tamlin’s lips latch onto her throat, trailing behind her ear to her collarbone, and yet all she can think about are those roses. How beautiful they are and how romantic he is and how all her troubles are over because finally she's found someone who will take care of her. 

He’s so handsome and so suave and so devastatingly _perfect_ that when he asks her to be his girlfriend the only answer she can think of is—

_Yes. A million times yes._

**iii.**

He changes after they become _official_. Some of the things she previously thought were sweet and endearing turn darker. His protectiveness becomes controlling. His interest in her life turns obsessive. Or maybe they weren’t charming before. Maybe she just overlooked it all.

But she loves him so much and he’s done so much for her that she’s sure that if she _just loves him enough_ he might change for her. She needs him to change for her. She needs him so badly to be her _one good thing_ that she’s willing to overlook anything, everything. 

She believes in this lie so strongly that when he proposes, she says, _Yes._

(Unlike their first date or when he asked her to be his girlfriend, his proposal isn’t romantic. She’d made him mad because she bought plane tickets to visit her older sisters over the weekend and hadn’t told him. His hand slipped. There was a red mark on her cheek in the shape of his hand. He’d immediately regretted it, felt so sorry, so terribly, overwhelmingly sorry that he cradled her and fucked her so gently, in a way he hadn’t in a very long time. And in the aftermath, when her fingers tapped on his chest and her cheek still throbbed, he asked quietly, _Will you marry me?_ all she could think to say was, _Yes_. She didn’t feel excited or happy. She felt relief. She still hates herself for that.)

Their engagement doesn’t last that long. Six months and some change. They get married in the spring and it’s a terrible, gaudy affair with press and people she doesn’t know. Her dress swallows her, buries her under mountains of tulle and lace. (She hates it but when she tried to disagree she thought he might hit her again.) 

The only ones there for her and only her are her two sisters. Nesta makes her disapproval known in a quiet way. Elain only smiles sadly. She thinks they see Tamlin better than she ever has despite only meeting him this once. The rest are shared acquaintances with Tamlin or complete strangers he’s never told her about. Of course, the senator comes. He kisses her on the cheek in congratulations, lingers a little longer than necessary, and Feyre feels uneasy when it’s over. 

When they retire to a honeymoon suite—paid for by his oh-so-generous father—Feyre lies on her back and lets him do what he will. Her fingers dig into his back and she moans when she’s supposed to if only stroke his fragile male ego, but her mind isn’t there. 

Not at all. It’s far, far away.

She’s married. She should be over the moon. She should be grateful. She should be so many things other than what she is.

A beautiful man loves her.  
(He possesses her.) 

She doesn’t have to go to school anymore.  
(He won’t let her.)

She should be happy.   
(But godsdammit why is she so _fucking_ sad?)

**iv.**

Feyre spent five years of her life losing herself in him. She was sure that this was what true love was because wasn’t this what it was like in the movies? It was passion and fire and a rollercoaster of ups and downs. No one made her as happy as him. (No one makes= her feel as worthless as him, either.) When he yells at her, it only means he loves her that much more. 

She’s a painter so she understands that when purple and green and blue spring up on her skin, he’s only scribbling his signature in the corner of her portrait. It hurts but he’s only doing it because he loves her. 

At least, that’s what she tells herself. Facing another truth—that this is not what love is, that this is something sick and wrong and twisted—would mean acknowledging everything she’s lost. Friends. Family. Jobs. Hobbies. _Herself_.

**v.**

Feyre lets out a shaky breath and buries her head in her hands. Her throat is tight and her jaw is clenched and eyes are squeezed shut. As she lifts her chin, her heart wrenches in her chest.

_Please say no. Please say no. Please please please._

Feyre opens her eyes. 

A small little plus sign stares back at her. 

Swallowing, she pushes herself to her feet. She grips the bathroom counter for support and resists the sudden urge to vomit. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, traces the cut on her lip and the bruise at her eye. Her legs crumble out from beneath her. 

She couldn’t stop the tears even if she tried.

**vi.**

That night, he comes home drunk. 

Feyre is sitting on the couch, a cashmere blanket draped over her legs. Her stomach has grown greatly, enough that putting on her shoes has become a hassle these days. She’s enjoying her Friday night, sunken into a six-thousand dollar couch as she watches a true crime documentary on Laci Peterson, when she hears the front door slam open and Tamlin stumbles in. 

She winces when at the loud thump of his work shoes smacking the wall. He hasn’t hit her in months, not since before she told him she was pregnant, but she still tenses at every loud sound he makes.

Tamlin shuffles in from the foyer and Feyre swings her legs out of the way just in time to avoid Tamlin plopping down on top of them. He groans, his head tilting back to rest on the back of the couch. He smells like whisky and smoke and there’s a hint of a powdery perfume stuck to his neck. A flash of red lipstick glares at her from his collar.

“Turn this shit off,” he says and Feyre fumbles for the remote. She changes the channel to ESPN.

Tamlin peaks open an eye and snarls at the basketball game on the screen. “Give me the fucking remote. Cauldron, how hard is it to pick something decent?”

Feyre offers it to him, her arm extended but her body curled into itself. “I’m sorry,” she says.

Tamlin grunts and rips it from her grasp. He mumbles something crude under his breath. They sit there in silence for a few moments, and those moments turn into hours. Finally, when she hears him let out a soft snore, slips her legs out from underneath the blanket and leaves Tamlin behind.

She pads towards the stairs that lead to their bedroom upstairs, socks sliding against beautiful oak floors. She makes sure to avoid the fifth stair which always creaks when she steps on it. And yet its not enough to keep him from waking. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he says, a hard edge hidden behind the slur.

Feyre stiffens and turns, slowly.

“To bed. I’m tired.”

“Did I say you could go?”

Feyre swallows and waits. She knows he’s still standing at the foot of the stairs, his pretty golden hair falling in his eyes. She wonders which of his secretaries he fucked tonight. Which one of them made his hair so messy and tangled? When he doesn’t move or speak, she begins to make her way further up the stairs. 

But when she reaches the landing, Tamlin’s upon her. He’s grabbing her hair, snarling in her ear with hot, heavy breath. _He’s drunker than I originally thought_ , she realizes. His temper is always so much worse when he drinks like this. Feyre cries out, her hands flying to her hair where his tight grip sears through her scalp. 

“Did I say you could go, _you fucking slut_?” he hisses and throws her down on the landing. 

She crawls away, scrambling as Tamlin looms over her. He’s always been so much taller than her and he’s always used it against her. In one fell swoop, he snatches up her wrists with more grace than he should possess. Maybe he isn’t that drunk. Maybe he just hates her.

She’ll never know.

When he backhands her, she gasps and blinks as her ears ring. She’s scared but not for her own life. She’s gotten used to knowing that her life has no value, no worth. But her baby’s life? That’s an entirely different matter. Tamlin drags her to her feet and Feyre feets something pop in her wrist. A dislocation, nore than likely. Feyre sobs. 

“Let me _go_ , Tamlin,” she says, pulling against the bone-crushing grip he has on her wrists.

HIs face twists. A face she’d once thought was handsome and flawless now looks like a demon or a gargoyle as he sneers at her. “You’ve always been so ungrateful for everything I’ve given you,” he hisses. “You don’t have to work a goddamn day in your life. And how do you repay me? By getting knocked up by my best friend?”

“What? Tamlin, I don’t know what your talking about! Let me go—”

_“I saw how he looked at you!”_

Feyre searches her brain. _What did I do what did I do what did I—_

 _Lucien_. Cauldron, he’s talking about Lucien. She’d hugged Lucien good-bye the previous night when he came over to drink and play poker with Tamlin and several other friends. 

“He’s just a friend. He’s your best friend. Tamlin, I would never do that to you.” She’s pleading now. He’s pacing toward her, pushing her back, and she feels it when her lower back hits the stair railing behind her. Next to her, the top of the stairs opens up. Maybe she can slip away. Get in the car. Drive away. Protect her baby. 

Tamlin hits her again and this time she tastes blood in her mouth. He grabs her wrists again and she whimpers when his grip crushes against her dislocated joint. 

“Tamlin, _please._ Let me go.”

He pauses, his face twisting again. _“Fine.”_

He lets go and Feyre rips back, twisting so she can flee down the stairs, but she goes a step too far—

She has to give him credit. He does, at the very least, reach for her. But he’s too slow.

So she falls. 

**vii.**

When she wakes up in the hospital, she knows something is wrong right away. Her hand flies to her stomach and the little heartbeat she’d grown so used to feeling is… _gone_.

“My baby,” she whispers. “Where is my baby?”

The doctor swallows. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Woodson. But you’ve miscarried.”

**viii.**

It’s not the first time she’s been in the hospital because Tamlin flew into a rage. It’s not the first time the doctor took a look at her wounds and asked her, _What happened here, ma’am?_

Before, it was just her. Before, he only hurt her.

But he’s taken something so much more precious from her and she can’t help the all-consuming sobs that wreck her body as she sits alone in a hospital room. Her baby. It’d been a little girl. She’d picked out a name already. _Her baby girl._

When the doctor returns and asks the same question— _what happened here what happened here what happened—_ she answers in a small voice, “He pushed me down the stairs. He killed my baby.”

**ix.**

They charge him domestic abuse, assault and battery, homicide, and a slew of other charges that Feyre doesn’t truly understand. Of course, the law firm he works with provides him with their nastiest defense attorney, a red-haired woman named Amarantha who looks like she drinks blood for breakfast. They manage to get all but one of the charges (homicide in the second degree for the death of their child) swept under the rug. When they go to trial, that’s when whatever remained of Feyre’s spirit breaks.

Amarantha delights in tearing her apart on the stand. By the time she’s done, Feyre think she might be right. _It’s her fault her baby is dead._

But the jury must not agree because when the verdict comes in, they slam him with the maximum sentence. Twenty years doesn’t really feel like enough and she doesn’t think it ever will… but it’s the best she’s going to get.

When the ink dries on the divorce papers, Feyre sits back in her little wooden chair. Nesta sits next to her clutching her hand, something predatory and sharp glinting in her eyes as she stares down at her ex-husband's signature on the porous paper.

(It’s true they’d been estranged for several years per Tamlin’s instructions but not even the Cauldron could keep Nesta away from her sister now. She’d showed up at the courthouse on the first day of the trial, shoving aside press members with the weight of her gaze alone, and hadn’t left Feyre’s side since. Elain had been with her, too, providing the shoulder Feyre leaned on for support, but Nesta was a one-woman army. When she first laid eyes on Feyre’s ex-husband, she rose a single, slender finger and pointed, her upper lip curling in a vicious snarl. Feyre didn’t know how such a gesture could be so frightening, but even Tamlin shivered.)

Elain squeezes her shoulders and rubs soothing circles into her shoulders with her thumbs. Feyre wishes she felt relief. The trial is over and she won. He’s gone. He can’t hurt her ever again. She can begin the long process of healing. 

“Come on,” Elain whispers. “Let’s get you home.”

Feyre swallows and stands when Nesta tugs on her arm. Her feet drag as she walks. When they leave the office, the press are still waiting on the front steps. Such a scandal. A senator's son sent to jail for beating his wife and killing their child. A staff member guides them to an exit in the back where they can leave in peace. At some point, she lifts her eyes from her shoes and catches a glimpse of her reflection in a wall of windows.

It’s been a long time since she’s looked in a mirror and something dead stares back at her. A body of skin and bones with circles the color of bruises under her eyes. Her clothes don’t fit. They hang off her body like curtains, concealing the scars underneath the gray cloth. The external injuries are healed but her soul is shredded. Tamlin had sunk his claws in so deep that removing them, removing _him_ , had been impossible to do without permanent damage. 

Who is that woman staring back her?

 _It’s me,_ she realizes. 

Tamlin has turned her into a ghost. A walking skeleton. A whisper of a human being. 

Feyre’s shoulders curl and absently her hand drops to her stomach. Elain grips her hand tighter.

"We've got you," she says. 

_Then why do I feel like I'm_ _free-falling?_


End file.
